Along With The Thunder

in the corner of a blanched bungalow sits a self-portrait: loose bantu knots the color of volcanic ash her living nightmare it was so much- stampeding rain wild winds the icon of tropical thunder with summer lightning but the spite of ash threatened the fete smashed the sun morning had broken an island smeared like God had face-palmed us judgment for another place another people resting on your gables the deadweight of ash crashing queenie's garden party The Lord is come. handling her Scriptures squeezing the Holy Spirit out of print was she wholly confessed, to be due robes of white satin? the sun reawakened, ash washed away, passes through her window where she sits cornered